


all my life made way for you

by janteu



Series: constellations [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Vigilantes, Blue Spirit Zuko (Avatar), Canon-Typical Violence, Dancers Zuko & Aang, Fanart Included, Multi, Painted Lady Katara, Past Mai/Zuko (Avatar), Pre-Poly, Pro Bender Katara, Republic City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28534140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janteu/pseuds/janteu
Summary: A year after awakening from his thousand-year cryogenic slumber, Aang is starting to finally feel at home in Republic City, one of the only places in the galaxy not yet conquered by the Fire Nation. But his friends have pasts as complicated as his, and no one in the city is safe from Fire Nation forces, least of all their band of runaways. It's not long before Aang realizes that he's going to have to deal with a lot more than baking pastries for the tea shop downstairs and being in love with his two best friends.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Aang/Katara/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: constellations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2090298
Comments: 9
Kudos: 18





	all my life made way for you

**Author's Note:**

> endless thanks to [jaystrifes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaystrifes) for the beta. title from cup of tea by wes reeve.

[](https://imgur.com/HfqlkOX)

[](https://imgur.com/1wH21y6)

It’s late, so they take the 40 on the bay route around downtown. If Aang’s ridden this trolley bus before, he doesn’t remember it; they usually take the train through the heart of the city instead, but tonight the blue line is down, stations closed with the end of the evening rush. The aircon is off and the windows are haphazardly thrown open, the night air blowing damp salt in its wake. 

The driver’s got an old radio that crackles out on its last legs in song; some nostalgic synth-string tune that swirls and tumbles in like the ocean. Aang taps out the beat with his fingers, hands damp against the sticky painted metal of the pole. At the edge of his vision a foot taps gently, the soft sound of a worn dancing shoe. The bus swerves, the tapping stops, their fingers brush. 

Aang looks up. Zuko grins as the vehicle shakes, all blues and violets and the beginnings of limelight. 

Aang wishes not for the first time that the dance studio weren’t so far away; he’s going to catch it from Katara about coming home too late. She’s always the first to scold any of them for staying out, and oftentimes rightly so—Aang would rather prefer not to come home in the dead of night only to find that a curfew was imposed earlier in the day. As much as Toph and Sokka have gotten used to life in the city, they also tend to err on the side of caution. The local officers would have a field day if they ever went through their flat. A runaway Beifong daughter, two Water system refugees, and an airbender? They’d be collecting gold all the way into their graves. 

Despite insisting that everyone be home before midnight, Katara’s been the one with deep bags under her eyes lately. Aang knows better than to question it. Instead, he sends her off to training at the pro-bending gym complex with a kiss on the cheek and whatever he’s baked for Iroh’s shop that morning. The most he can do is be there when she’s ready. Patience is a virtue the monks instilled within him at an early age, he reminds himself, eyeing the emptiness of the bus with a sigh. 

“Not so far, now,” Zuko says, just a shoulder’s length away from Aang’s ear, his voice ringing loud against the backdrop of the city at night. 

Aang nods, watching as Zuko slings his bag over his shoulder and straightens up, hastily brushing hair from his eyes like he does when he’s nervous about something. They turn onto the street by the bay, and the horizon line opens up. Aang thinks of all those stories of faraway skies and cities and oceans of the different systems and how none of them thought to mention the way the dark purple glow of the water under the light of Yu Dao’s five moons would lean against Zuko’s cheek, the curl of his lips. 

The bus sways. “Oh,” begins Zuko, “there’s just—” the lights flicker out for a few seconds as the driver changes tracks “—a little spot right there, hah, sorry.” 

He smiles sheepishly, the rounds of his cheeks changing shape as his mouth goes lopsided. Aang forgets that Zuko’s spent a lot more time in the city than he has. Learning about Zuko feels like mapping out the city itself—just as thrilling and rewarding as it is difficult.

Aang chuckles, looks out a window. “Choppy connection out here?”

“A bit, yeah.” 

“The air’s so clear, though,” says Aang. It’s heavy, though. Sweeter. It only occurs to him how strange the words are after they’ve left his mouth, how damning they could be if anyone was out searching for him. Zuko barely bats an eyelash. 

“One of the only perks of taking the 40 at night,” laughs Zuko. “I can assure you that it’s not this nice during the day.” Aang cringes, seized by a sense-memory of cramped, sweaty bodies packed onto a poorly-ventilated tram. 

“I’ve never actually been down to the bay at night,” muses Aang, watching the lines of the shore disappear into the distance. Zuko watches him, expression inscrutable.

“It’s usually pretty empty this time of night,” he says finally. Aang looks between him and the bus stop. Zuko suddenly grabs his hand, fingers soft and warm against his. “Let’s go—we’ve got sixteen minutes until the next 40 comes through, if you want to take a walk and commune with the trash and polluted water.” 

Aang laughs brightly and lets Zuko tug him down the steps of the trolley-bus and out into the late night air, slinging an arm over his shoulder and pulling him towards the water. He can feel the sand whip at his legs as soon as they get off the bus, suddenly instantly aware of the stickiness of the air and the dampness of his shirt, drying slowly after dance practice. Zuko’s chuckling is warm and Aang can feel it resonate under his arm, sweet and gentle, so strangely unassuming. 

The beach is just as empty as promised, but far more trashed than Aang expected. The water froths with oil and murk. Aang watches the spaceport across the bay pump thick-flowing smog from its orifices and wrinkles his nose. They keep their shoes on and stay away from the water. 

“It’s irradiated,” Zuko explains, “that’s why it looks almost purple—the jellies come out about now to feed. Most of the drinking water still comes down from the mountains through the Upper District, though.”

Aang just nods; he can practically smell the radiation off the sea. The purple and blue remind him of the Water system, of Katara’s planet, but something bitter washes in with the wind. He’s struck by how strange a place this is for a city that was built under the Republic; a city that’s meant to symbolize unity should at least start with a proper water source. And yet he has to admire the fragmented peoples of the galaxy, struggling to come together in the aftermath of the comet, for their stubbornness. After all, the Air Nomads lived almost entirely on spaceports and their own vessels, and air has never been particularly plentiful out in deep space.

In his few months in Republic City, Aang’s already seen so many different species from the different systems coexisting. Even the shadow of corruption and the looming threat of Fire Nation forces haven’t been able to stop the city residents yet. He couldn’t possibly be more alone in the universe—in the most literal sense possible—but he doesn’t feel like it, these days. Waking up from a thousand years in a cryo-chamber isn’t something he ever would have expected from his life. The monks would tell him to welcome fate with open eyes and an open heart. 

Zuko turns to him, the sharp edges of his face made soft by moonlight. Perhaps the monks would offer Aang the same wisdom in love, too. Aang has a feeling he’s going to need it. He can feel the stretch of his own smile in his cheeks.

“I’ve never seen anyone dance like you,” says Zuko suddenly. “You’re—so graceful, so light. So determined.” His voice is soft and awkward, the words almost rushing over each other, lips and mind and body all out of sync. 

It’s not the first compliment Aang has received since he started dancing at the studio, but none of them have felt quite like this. The words wind quietly through him like a string floating on water. Layers of waves hang from them, waiting at any moment to curl and fall with the oncoming storm. Aang watches the nervous flicker of Zuko’s lips, glowing a gentle lilac-pink under the blossoming moons. 

“I don’t think we’re so different,” says Aang, reaching out to brush Zuko’s fingers with his. His heart thuds treacherously. “You dance like that, too. Like your life depends on it.” 

Zuko’s hand tenses against Aang’s, his face painfully open, but Aang just waits, giving him a quiet, reassuring smile. Lets the hard lines of Zuko’s neck and shoulders melt and wash away with the tide. 

“Katara would love it out here,” Aang says eventually. “Nothing like the clear beaches of the Water systems, but still the sea.” Zuko shoots him a small smile that would look like a cringe on anyone else. “She misses home, even if she doesn’t say so.”

Zuko nods. A whisper of sorrow flickers through his eyes. He never talks about where he’s from; Aang doesn’t either. Their reasons are their own. Here, together, they’re just dancers. Everything is rhythm, the crash of the waves, sweet and salty. Hearts beating quiet and simple under the moons. Aang knows the longing shows on his face.

“She comes into the back of the shop at least once a week to get updates on our stock of traditional Water Tribe tea. She’s partial to the ginger blend,” Zuko says fondly, before frowning and going a little pink. “She just barged right in, the first few times. My uncle thought,” says Zuko haltingly, “well, he thought that she was flirting with me.” Aang bursts into laughter at this, delighted by the devastatingly lovely slant of Zuko’s mouth, the perturbed little crinkles around his eyes. 

“He might be right,” Aang says with a quiet smile, revealing too much. Their eyes hold for one moment too long, stuck somewhere in the eye of the storm, impossibly still and impossibly close. Aang blinks once, and the moment breaks and falls like a wave. He laughs quietly at the dusky hue of Zuko’s ears as he turns away. 

It’s not as if Katara doesn’t have the same effect on him, even after all they’ve been through together in the past year. Hightailing it on a thousand-year-old ship out of the Water system, learning to live in the strangest city in the galaxy—they’ve been through it all together. But Aang doesn’t think that the erratic thump of his heartbeat has anything to do with jealousy. 

“Oh, spirits,” says Zuko suddenly, turning to Aang with wide eyes and a horrified, red-tinged face, “is she…are you—?” He breaks off awkwardly. Aang blinks.

“Er, it’s complicated,” tries Aang, blushing slightly. Zuko gives him a look that would be condescending if he weren’t so red, too. “I’m, well, in love with her,” Aang concludes helplessly, and cracks a grin at Zuko that he hopes doesn’t say _and maybe a little bit in love with you, too._

“Oh, I know complicated,” says Zuko dryly, “I broke up with my girlfriend when I left for Republic City three years ago.” A hint of a smile curls at the edges of his mouth. “She’s trained in daggers. Top of her class.” 

“Alright, no need to one-up me, Zuko,” laughs Aang, imagining a teenage Zuko facing the wrath of his dagger-wielding, presumably edgy ex-girlfriend. 

“Hey, you’re more competitive than you think,” Zuko says, narrowing his eyes at Aang slightly. Aang raises his hands in mock-submission. “Showing up at the studio all humble,” Zuko mutters, before pitching his voice round and formal, “ _I would be honored if you would teach me._ ” He mock-bows at Aang, then drops the act and shoots him a very poor attempt at a stern look. “You’re lucky I was willing to humor you. If Suki were there she might’ve laughed you out of the building.” 

“You’re never gonna let that one go, huh?” asks Aang with a sigh. Zuko glares at him, but it’s soft around the edges. “Oh, come on,” Aang laughs, elbowing him. “No partners in that studio dance like we do.” 

The grin Zuko shoots him is too fond, too close. He must realize it, too, because he turns away quickly, glancing out over the water. The night breeze is cool, but Aang can almost feel a fire burning in his palms, a strange inner glow he’s never noticed before. He longs to splay his fingers out, to spin air between them like folds of silk, but he would bet the headband covering his arrow that it would only fan the flame, breathing it to life. 

Aang watches Zuko from the corner of his eye, traces the sharp line of his metal-wrought cheekbone with his eyes. An angry red scar peeks out from underneath the metal, the seam between skin and silver tight and painful. Aang stopped noticing it a long time ago, but questions swirl in his head as he realizes that Zuko’s never asked about his headband. Aang isn’t usually so awful with words, but he can’t begin to piece together his gratitude. He’s more afraid that the truth will come tumbling out. 

“Do you know the dragon dance?” Aang asks, not stopping to consider the words before they’ve left his mouth. 

He can’t remember whose tradition it was first, and can’t hope to know how much it’s changed since his childhood—the dance of the first fire-breathers, full of complicated, rhythmic foot movements, hanging somewhere in limbo between air and fire. Flight and flame intertwined. A remnant of peacetime in the galaxy that became a point of contention between the Air Nomads and Fire Nation hundreds of years ago. Aang was shocked to see, after arriving in Republic City, that the studio advertised a dragon dance segment of the programme in an upcoming festival, and hasn’t been able to get the question out of his head ever since.

Zuko blinks at him. “I do,” he says, surprised and wary, and his lips twist as if he wants to ask a thousand questions. “Not very well, though. My mother was fond of it.” His face twists, pain deepening the sharpness of his chin and furrow of his brows. 

Aang positions his feet, holds out a hand, and begins to hum. It’s a forgotten melody, notes that swirl on the roof of his mouth, recalled only in the moments between one phrase and the next. Zuko snaps and steps forward, waist tucked against Aang’s arm, and the tune fades away to the beat of the waves against the sand. Aang is light on his feet, but the sand and rocks are dark and messy. He laughs, moving slow and balanced, clasping Zuko’s hand whenever he’s even slightly unsteady.

“There’s a reason we dance in a studio,” Zuko says, huffing exasperatedly. 

Aang spins him around, bumping their wrists together, remembering the steps with the same sort of instinct he might use to prepare a dish made for him as a child. He laughs, giddy with the warmth of Zuko’s hands and forearms, the spicy smell of the back of his neck when he twirls close.

“Got to keep you on your toes,” laughs Aang, watching as Zuko’s scowl morphs into something sweet. 

Above the gravitational pull of Zuko’s crescent eyes, the moons light up the horizon in a heterogeneous arc, stars spattered all around, partially hidden by heavy, storm-laden clouds. The bay gets early-morning storms before the fog rolls in. In a few hours the rain will be torrential. The dampness is soothing, slipping heavily over Aang’s face and shoulders like a second skin, seeping into his being with the sweetness of honey and the richness of wine.

He’s surprised at how well Zuko knows the dance, but they’ve spent so much time dancing together in the past couple of months that it’s not difficult to make it up as they go. The world disintegrates until nothing remains but damp, warm bodies pressed along each other’s edges, learning their ways. The missteps and occasional bump of shoes are mere afterthoughts. 

Aang is good at reading the air. Every brush of wind is a lesson, a direction on a map, a whispered secret. He feels where Zuko’s body is by the negative space around him, the rushing of the summer breeze between their bodies. Wherever Zuko flickers, the wind is not far behind, singing in time with the crash of waves and the quiet huffing of breath. 

He recalls the first night in the flat above Iroh’s shop with sudden clarity—Toph and Sokka doused in cheap rice wine, the smell of it permeating Katara’s hair as she spun him around their tiny kitchen to a song on their fancy new holoradio, her sly smile and her hands on his waist. _Don’t tell me that cute boy at the tea shop is your Zuko,_ she’d said, mouth pulled wide into a laugh. Aang had laughed too, a flush high on his cheeks. _The very same._

With thoughts of wide, glittering sapphire eyes he’s met with burning amber, so close that he can feel the heat of Zuko’s breath against his cheek, a caress over his lips. Aang’s breath tangles in his throat. 

And then—the jarring, staticky sound of the trolley bus coming to a stop at the platform above. They freeze, perfectly poised in between steps, blinking at each other as if waking from a dream. 

Aang hurtles into motion, grabbing Zuko by the hand and yanking him up the slope. He’s laughing, though he doesn’t quite know why, and Zuko’s laughing too, racing towards the open doors of the bus at breakneck speed. They barely slip on before the bus is back in motion again, its wheels squeaky and tired. The three other passengers on the bus shoot them odd looks, but Aang can’t be bothered—he’s too busy smiling at Zuko’s red face and the sweat beading over his upper lip.

“This isn’t quite how I expected to spend my night,” Zuko says, catching his breath. He huffs a sigh and smiles, flustered. Aang grins at him.

“What—running for the bus stop? Dancing on the beach? It does sound a bit sordid, doesn’t it?” 

Zuko doesn’t take the bait. “How are you so good at everything?" he finally asks, exasperated. "Sometimes just being around you is tiring.” 

“It’s part of my charm,” says Aang pleasantly. 

The bus jumps; Zuko’s warm shoulder brushes his. Aang swallows. “And the dance—well.” He waits for more words to come. They don’t.

“It’s important to me, too,” says Zuko quietly. Aang smiles at him gratefully.

“The closest thing I had to a father taught me,” Aang manages finally, stumbling, meeting Zuko’s watchful eyes. “He taught me that dancing is about love. Freedom.” 

Bottled belonging spilled onto a dance floor, made level for all who step onto it. Aang didn’t understand it before, not really; not as a teenager traversing the galaxy during peacetime, always in motion, always close to home. If living in this future world has given him anything, it’s the feeling of insignificance, the terrible homesickness deeply embedded in every heart of their motley crew. It’s as much a gift of wisdom as it is a hardship. Aang has seen it on Katara firsthand; shared it with her, lived through it with her. It’s not difficult to see that Zuko is a man with a past. 

Aang reaches for him. Zuko stills for a moment, then intertwines their fingers, both of their hands too warm to be comfortable, but holding on as if for dear life. 

“He must have been very wise,” Zuko says. _And very dear to you,_ he doesn’t say, but Aang doesn’t need to hear the words to know that Zuko is thinking them. “I was lucky to have someone to teach me the same.” 

“Your uncle,” says Aang with a smile. Zuko nods at him. 

“I owe him everything,” says Zuko. 

Aang thinks of Sokka and Katara, of their unbreakable bond, of how hard it was for Sokka to grow up alongside her and lose his mother’s face to Katara’s. How Sokka came to Republic City with her to protect her, to be there for her, and how he’s realized how much she’s done for him. How Katara’s dream has always been to come to Republic City to learn waterbending from a real master, only to find that her best shot at learning is as public entertainment, thrown inevitably into the shark-pit of the booming pro-bending industry. How Aang owes it to Gyatso to find out the truth about the galaxy; to avenge his people. Gyatso’s voice resonates in his mind, a gentle, reassuring murmur.

Zuko doesn’t owe his uncle anything. Aang knows it like he knows the beating of his heart—and he’s had a whopping thousand years of it. But Zuko knows it, too; Aang is sure of it. He knows the same way Aang knows. They’re still guilty, tired, heart-sick. The road ahead is long. 

Aang keeps his mouth shut. He hopes that the smile he gives Zuko is enough. 

The bus bumps them back into the city slowly, weaving through tightly-packed streets in an arc. Aang checks the holopad by the doors for the time. It’s nearing two already—he doubts Sokka or Toph will be up when he gets home, but he wouldn’t be surprised to find Katara worried sick in the kitchen. 

“Should’ve called when we were back at the studio,” mutters Aang. None of them have had much use for a personal holopad, since they had been spending most of their time on the _Appa_ in the months previous. They’ve since gotten used to public transportation. Sokka’s idea, initially—and a wise one; there is no better way to disappear into the city crowds—but after a week they’d all missed the speed and ease of the _Appa_ , which has been hidden safely away in a storeroom underneath the pro-bending facilities since. 

Aang hasn’t been out to fly; the city is crawling with corrupt officials, and the skies over the bay are strictly monitored. They’d only made it into the atmosphere by crash-landing in the North Bay and sneaking into port from the water. It’d caused quite a fuss, including an increased patrol. If they ever need to leave the city, they’ve got a single escape route: straight over the Central District from the North Bay and through the mainland spacegate. But it can only be used once; a last resort. This city—the last remains of the Republic—is their only chance; Aang’s only chance to discover why he survived a thousand years in a cryo-chamber on the _Appa_. 

“Yeah,” Zuko says sheepishly. Aang blinks himself back to the present. “I’d be worried, too. It’s bad form to apologize with tea instead of words, I know,” he sighs. 

“She’d appreciate some words, I’m sure, but I’ve never heard her complain about the tea,” laughs Aang.

Zuko’s smile has gone soft again, and Aang is struck with tenderness. Katara can be ruthless with both of them, but he knows how much she cares, and he greets her rough edges and gentleness alike with a smile. It must be strange for Zuko; having someone whose sharp words are meant to protect, not harm. It was strange for Aang, too, at first, but he doesn’t know where he’d be without her. 

The streets become more densely packed as they make their way through Central. The bus goes through a few separate cycles of passengers. The city roars to life and quiets down again through the windowpane, never entirely silent. They come to a final rolling stop at the bottom of their block where most of the shops are concentrated, but Aang doesn’t get the chance to leisurely roll his shoulders and yawn. 

Something is very wrong. It’s late, but the Central District never really sleeps. His heart thuds in his ears as the doors of the bus slide open and he steps onto the pavement of the street to find that the windows of the 24-hour noodle joint that Sokka loves are dark, and almost all of the lanterns adorning the buildings have been extinguished. He breathes in sharply. Katara. Toph. Sokka. Iroh.

Something slams into him, crowding him into the shadow of a shop awning. It’s only Zuko; his solid chest presses against him, tensed with anticipation as if he’s about to do a particularly strenuous jump without the help of the barre. But they’re not at the studio, and Aang can see a group of officers at the top of the street, right where the tea shop is. It’s not difficult to tell what’s going on.

“It’s a raid,” hisses a woman from a window nearby, just barely cracked open to reveal her terrified, pleading face. “Get inside!”

Aang grabs at Zuko’s arm. Zuko clasps a hand in both of his and stares him down, fire written all over his face.

“You take the rooftop route and find Katara and the others. If we’re lucky, my uncle will either be in the garden upstairs or asleep. I’ll come up on them from behind.”

“I can’t let you go alone,” says Aang lowly. Zuko squeezes his fingers.

“Put those light feet to good use, Aang. Come back for me.” 

And then he’s tucking twin holoblade hilts into the scabbards at his waist and pressing a finger to his temple, the projection of a blue mask extending over his face. The Blue Spirit. Vigilante justice extraordinaire, hero of the Central District and titular enemy of the city police. Wanted posters all over the damned city. Of course it’s Zuko. Aang doesn’t know why he expected any less. He grabs Zuko’s hand again and presses it once. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” murmurs Aang into his ear.

“I won’t,” Zuko outright lies, and then he disappears into the shadows, flying straight through to the storm. 

Aang doesn’t look back—he hurtles through the thin opening at the door left by the woman and climbs straight up the fire escape on her back balcony, offering hushed thanks to the residents of the household all the while. He speeds over the rooftops as quickly as he dares. The fragrant smell of Iroh’s rooftop garden hits his nose at the same moment that a woman flies past him in flowing robes, her hair smelling of sea salt. 

Aang twirls into a backflip out of her way, landing easily on his feet. He pulls his legs apart into a fighting stance, hands positioned out in front of him automatically. Perhaps she could be a spirit. He doesn’t move. 

It’s dark, but between the hat and the robes, there’s only one person she can be—the Painted Lady. She turns away, hair swishing down in front of her, and Aang catches a flash of sapphire eyes. 

“Katara?” he asks, disbelieving. His eyes have gone so wide that he can feel the strain in his jaw. 

“Aang,” breathes Katara, racing toward him and clutching his head tightly. Two hands on his waist, two at his neck. He sighs into her. “Thank Mother Ocean you’re alright. I was so worried. I heard that there would be officers out tonight. I didn’t know when you’d be back.” She comes up on her toes and presses her forehead against his, her hat falling to the ground behind her. She holds him for a barely a moment before she freezes. “Where’s Zuko?”

“You wouldn’t believe—” he starts, but then backtracks, remembering something he heard about a rivalry between the Blue Spirit and the Painted Lady. He silently thanks Sokka for being a terrible gossip. Perhaps Aang should start paying more attention to the papers.

He can hardly believe he was on the bus back home not a few minutes prior. Time seems to stretch ahead of him in a tense, rippling wave. 

“There’s a raid. Zuko’s in danger.” He swallows tightly, clasps her hands. 

Katara blinks up at him, her expression churning with rage and fear. 

“I’ll go down there. Get the others out. You’re going to have to be quiet. Create some wind in the rooms, make them look like they’ve already been raided. Don’t let them see you airbending.” 

“We don’t know if they’re looking for me. It’s probably just another attempt to rustle out refugees.” 

“We can’t risk it, Aang. The place where Toph bought citizenship papers for us is practically owned by the Southern District’s police department. They’ll take us all in if they find us.”

Aang squeezes her fingers tightly the way Zuko did for him, pressing his nose into her hair and begging the spirits to get them all out of this safely.

“Have you seen Iroh?” he asks.

“He’s not in the shop, and not in the garden. He saw me sneaking out the first few times, actually.” She gives him a mildly guilty look. “He’s probably in bed. Make sure to take the stairs. They’ll have jammed the lift.”

She gives him another tight, rushed hug. Aang sinks into it, trying to ignore the knot in his stomach.

“We’ll find you by the North Bay,” says Aang, hoping desperately that it won’t come to that. 

With a solemn set to her eyes, she picks up her hat and slides down a trail of ice over the rooftops to the street below. Almost immediately, he can hear the fire, the yelling, the clang of metal. He takes a deep breath and jumps his way down the stairs to the landing, barely stopping to catch his breath before he races down the hallway. The door to their flat comes unlocked with a quick swish of air. Toph is awake immediately. Sokka takes a little more coaxing.

“Sorry, come again?” asks Toph once they’ve sufficiently trashed their flat and Aang has about finished explaining everything. 

“So, Katara has been sneaking out at night to infiltrate Fire Nation forces and heal refugees?” Sokka rolls his neck with a sleepy sigh. “Good for her.” Then he stops to point an accusatory finger at Aang. “Wait, I don’t believe that she told you to trash the place. She’s the one who’s obsessed with the cleaning rotation. I’m not gonna let you two conspire to get me on toilet duty for three weeks straight.” 

“Oh, that’s where she’s been sneaking out at night? I thought she was with you, Aang,” says Toph. “Conspiring, indeed.” Aang chokes. Sokka suddenly looks very awake.

“No, that’s not—” Aang starts, herding them into the hallway, before shutting his eyes tightly. “Toph, I can’t believe you,” hisses Aang, receiving a smug smile in response. 

“That’s my sister you’re talking about,” barks Sokka. Toph cackles. 

The hallways are quiet, but a few of the doors have been ripped off their hinges to reveal a path of destruction within. A heavy air of anger and terror settles over them, suffocating. Aang secures his headband so tight it hurts. They rush down the stairs to Iroh’s floor. 

Toph bursts into the flat first. She presses a palm to the stone floor.

“No one’s here.” 

Aang looks at Sokka desperately. He needs to find Katara and Zuko. It feels too selfish to say aloud. Sokka shoots him a determined look.

“I know,” Sokka says. “We’ll find Iroh.”

Toph nods, and Aang feels his heart swell, threatening to tumble right out of him. 

He’s taking off down the stairs in a flash, only slowing when he reaches the kitchens of the tea shop. The storefront has been almost completely torn apart; shattered glass and shrapnel are strewn about, the unconscious bodies of the patrolling officers lying in the shadowy corners of Aang’s vision. In front of him, he can see Katara leaning over an official with far too many badges, his arms stuck to the ground in a block of ice.

The officer is yelling something at her, but Aang can’t hear him. Katara doesn’t bother to respond. Aang crouches his way through the remains of the storefront, careful to make sure he can’t be seen. Finally, he spots Zuko lying slumped against the far wall, his twin holoblades cast out on the ground before him and his side turning dark with blood. The mask is still on. Something terrifying curdles in Aang. He thinks he can hear voices echoing in his head, but he can’t tell what they’re saying over the rush of blood in his ears. 

“Would you look at that,” says the officer. “The Blue Spirit and the Painted Lady working together. How moving.” He looks up at Katara’s enraged face, his smirk broad even as she holds four icy blades to his neck. Katara’s not a killer. The officer is banking on it.

Aang realizes, a sudden sinking feeling weighing on his gut, that this is no ordinary raid. It’s been careful, calculated. And Aang hasn’t got a clue who the target of it all actually is—all he knows is that they have to get out. Zuko’s in no condition to fight, and Katara can’t risk getting arrested. 

“Would you, a descendant of Mother Ocean, still protect him if I showed you who he really is?” goads the officer. His grin is sharp and sickening. The pit of Aang’s stomach opens into a void.

Zuko stays silent, his breathing labored. His head falls back, thumping against the wall, and Aang doesn’t see the flickering of his cybernetic eye until it’s too late. The mask falls, and Zuko’s face appears, painted with scrapes and bruises.

The officer laughs harshly. Aang can tell that Katara wants nothing more than to turn, to find that the boy from the tea shop has been out fighting alongside her this whole time. Aang’s heartbeat slows as he realizes that Katara isn’t going to look behind her, her grip on the ice sharp and unyielding. And then the officer opens his mouth to speak again. 

“Take a look, Painted Lady. Could you have guessed? The exiled prince of the Fire Kingdom, playing at vigilantism with a bunch of refugees.” 

Time slows. Aang looks between Katara and Zuko, every muscle in his body tightening. Katara slips—just barely—her eyes go wide, her fingers waver, and Aang doesn’t see the ice melting under the officer’s right palm until it’s too late. She turns, only for a split second, to meet Zuko’s eyes, and then back around to meet Aang’s.

“Aang, don’t—!” she yells, her control wavering, eyes blown open wide. Aang lunges forward, feeling air spinning at his fingertips, but before he can summon a gust strong enough to knock down the officer’s hand, water trickles through his veins instead. When he pulls his arms up, it’s water that knocks the hand down with a sickening crack, and not water that Katara has bent.

He doesn’t have time to be surprised. The officer howls in pain, and Aang shoots forward, ignoring the tingling chill in his fingertips and whipping up cover with the dust in the street. Katara hasn’t been hit with the full force of the blow, but in staggering backward she’s landed hard on the steps of the storefront, already tired from wiping out an entire patrol party not minutes earlier. Aang looks between her and Zuko desperately, losing himself to instinct.

Officers come into the street from every direction. Aang doesn’t have time to take them one by one, so he grabs Katara’s by arm and yanks her along into the center of the vortex. She rushes unsteadily to Zuko’s side while Aang fumbles in his pocket for his frequency whistle. The _Appa_ is rather elderly, at this point, and far enough away that they can’t count on a particularly speedy pick-up, but Aang doesn’t see any other options. He blows into the whistle hard.

“My uncle,” Zuko rasps, clutching Katara’s arm as he tries to stand. Katara presses him back down to the ground with a hand on his sternum. It’s obvious that he’s in no condition to stand on his own. Aang eyes the spreading wet patch on his side and swallows his heart back down. 

“Sokka and Toph are looking for him,” says Aang, whipping the vortex out in waves. His wind is strong, but not loud enough to drown out the screams that claw their way out of the officers’ mouths. Aang’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t want to get used to this. 

“They’re not going to stop sending officers,” Katara says. “We’ve got to get back through the tea shop and upstairs. It’ll be harder for them to use firepower in a stone building.”

Aang gives her a tight nod, his teeth grinding against each other with exertion. He spins his fingers to whirl out a tunnel of air leading back to the stairwell inside. Katara drags Zuko up with all four of her arms, holding him tightly against her, silent all the while. Her eyes are fierce against the smudged paint on her face, her hair chaotic and undone around her shoulders. Zuko couldn’t possibly trust anyone better with his life.

“Let’s go,” she says roughly. 

Aang hurries them inside, pushing walls of wind out with his palms blindly. They make it around the back of the building with some difficulty, officers hot on their heels. Katara turns out to be right about the stone building—they’d originally chosen the place for Toph’s benefit, despite the lack of appeal that the cinderblock decor presented. Aang isn’t thinking about the decor as he whirls a bit of stony wreckage in a gust of wind behind him, climbing up and down stairs after Katara and Zuko.  
  
They weave all the way to an adjacent alley when Katara has to stop to breathe. Aang realizes as he gingerly holds Zuko up that Katara has gone clammy and ashen-faced, a few long burns visible on her arms and bruises blooming over her shoulders. She catches Aang staring and shoots him a frozen glare. 

“I’m fine,” she says harshly, pressing one healing hand to her shoulder and another to Zuko’s side, the sheen of sweat on her forehead catching edges of moonlight. She’ll be fine, Aang knows, but his stomach still churns with worry.

“So,” coughs Zuko with a frail smile in Aang’s direction, “are you a waterbender or an airbender?” Aang blinks at him, suddenly struck with the urge to laugh.

Katara shoots Zuko a terse glare. “I don’t know, are you a tea shop busboy, a wanted vigilante, or an exiled Fire Nation prince?” 

Zuko produces some kind of hybrid between a cringe and a smile in response—it’s rather impressive, considering the state he’s in. He also kind of looks like he wants to laugh. 

Katara doesn’t get a chance to snap at any of them for their dark humor, because in that moment, a sudden shadow enshrouds their alcove, and a hovercar embossed with the symbol of the white lotus slides up next to them quietly. The doors slide open to reveal Suki at the driver’s seat and the thoroughly relieved faces of Sokka and Toph, who tumble out to haul the three of them inside. 

“This is no _Appa_ , but it is a sweet ride,” says Toph, bending the metal of a seat down for Zuko to lie on. “Courtesy of Iroh. Said he was getting a little old to be the getaway driver.” 

“Then he’s okay,” Zuko breathes, then grunts in pain. Katara is back at his side in an instant. 

“Of course,” says Toph, like Zuko’s been stupid for ever doubting it. “And he said not to worry about the _Appa_ , either, Aang,” says Toph as soon as Aang opens his mouth.

“I’ve never seen your ship, Aang,” Suki says apologetically, “but at least we can lose them on the ground. We’d get shot out of the air within minutes on a spacecraft.”

The hovercar jerks sharply as Suki makes a tight turn. Aang tries to look out the window and his stomach lurches at the speed. 

“Right,” says Aang distantly. 

Between hovering over Katara and Zuko and watching as Suki’s fingers fly over the controls, Aang’s overwhelmed mind decides it’s time to start processing the past couple of hours. He stares down at his hands, which are shaking slightly. Now that he knows what it feels like, he can sense water almost everywhere. Not quite another sense altogether, but one that has lain dormant and has come rushing all at once to the fore. He can’t believe he’s never noticed it before. 

“Boy, do we have a story to tell you,” says Sokka with a tired smile. Aang blinks at him with wide eyes before letting out a dry chuckle. He glances at Katara, who hasn’t looked up from tending to Zuko, but is still shaking her head quietly. Suki frowns.

“We need to get Zuko some medical help. I think storytime can wait,” she says sharply. Sokka grumbles something unintelligible.

“Hah,” breathes Zuko. “I’ll bet your boomerang that I’ve got a better story to tell.” 

“Now is _not_ the time,” interjects Katara stiffly, holding the healing water over the gaping wound in Zuko’s side as best she can. 

The hovercar is smooth, but not entirely, and even small jolts write pain over Zuko’s face. Suki might be the first person in the galaxy that Aang would trust to drive him through the city at thrice the speed limit, but he can’t say that he’s happy about it. Aang kneels on Zuko’s other side, brushing hair from his eyes and watching him, searching.

“This might hurt just a little,” says Katara. Zuko closes his eyes. Aang reaches out for his hand, bending down to press a soft kiss to his knuckles. When he looks up, Zuko’s watching him with burning eyes. 

“You know, I once heard that the prince of the Fire Nation was exiled because he failed to find the last airbender,” murmurs Aang quietly. “I wonder what he’ll do now. Chase me across the galaxy in the name of honor and glory, maybe?” asks Aang, more playful than he feels. His fingers tremble as he reaches up and strokes the pale line of Zuko’s cheek.

“Maybe in some other universe,” says Zuko weakly, “one where I’m younger and stupider.” 

Aang laughs at him, quiet and close, and is shocked to taste salty wetness running down from his cheeks into his mouth. Katara looks up at him, her eyes watery, too, and her smile clever and real as she removes the healing water, triumphant. The wound is still ugly, but by no means fatal, and by the look on her face, she’s no longer worried about treating him instantly. She’ll need the time in between to rest.

“I don’t think any chasing will be necessary,” says Katara, hiding her smile in the shadows of the low light of the hovercar. “You’ve already got him, it seems.” Zuko’s grin is weak, but broad as Aang’s ever seen it. Katara’s thumb brushes against Aang’s—a promise. 

“He hasn't got you, too?” Aang laughs, receiving a much-deserved knee to the stomach in response. Zuko’s regaining a bit of color, mostly made evident by the pink flush on his cheeks. Katara leans back with a tired smile, the heavy lines around her eyes and the weary set of her shoulders the only indication of how uncomfortable she is. 

Aang crawls around to have a look at her shoulders, gesturing wordlessly at her waterskin. Sure enough, he’s able to draw a glowing pool out and press cool hands to her shoulders. It’s soothing, even on his own fingers, but after a moment he realizes how incredibly taxing it is. But Katara sighs into his touch, the tension in her shoulders loosening, so he keeps going. She winces when he brushes over an open wound, a hand rushing up to her collarbone, and then she stills suddenly. 

“My mother’s necklace,” she mutters, “I must’ve left it in my room before I left.”

Toph turns around from where she’s bickering with Sokka, digging around in her pocket. 

“Looking for this, Sugar Queen?” she asks, leaning over to toss the necklace into Katara’s lap. “Figured I’d grab it in case we couldn’t go back. I did always wonder why you left it behind for your nighttime outings.” Her expression takes on a feral quality. “Wouldn’t want you to look less than your best for your furtive liaisons with twinkle-toes. Or Zuko. Never could tell.” 

“And I was about to thank you,” Katara mutters. “What exactly did you tell Sokka and Toph, Aang?” It takes all of Aang’s concentration not to drop the healing water all over Katara’s back. He casts a helpless glance at Zuko, who’s red as a fire flake. 

“Not enough, clearly,” says Sokka, turning in his seat to look at them. His jaw nearly unhinges at the sight of the water covering Aang’s hands. “Aang’s a _waterbender_ now?” he manages.

“Still an airbender, too,” says Aang, twirling a gust of air up to slam Sokka’s gaping mouth shut. Sokka makes an indignant gurgling sound, reaching up to grab at his jaw dramatically. Katara sighs. 

“You’ll do earth and fire next, I bet,” laughs Toph. Aang blinks at her before realizing she’s joking. The idea lodges itself in his gut. He focuses on the water. 

“What did I tell you, Sokka?” chides Zuko tiredly. Katara squeezes his hand, chastising.

“Hey, I never agreed to that bet,” Sokka shoots back, but he looks relieved. It’s a good sign that Zuko is up to banter—he’s starting to look much better already. Aang still doesn’t let go of his hand. 

“Okay, boys, enough,” says Suki from the driver’s seat. “We’re here.”

Through the window, Aang can make out the early summer sunrise and the grand doors of what looks like an estate in the middle of the Eastern District. The doors are carved with the same symbol as the hovercar—a faded white lotus, just as it would appear on a Pai Sho board. 

The hovercar comes to a smooth stop, hidden in the shadows of an alleyway. Aang helps Katara haul Zuko to his feet. They make their way through the side gate, thankful for the quiet of the morning, and are met with a perfectly-kept garden and a man by the name of Piandao.

“We’re here to see my uncle,” says Zuko in an impressive show of dignity. He and Toph are the only ones who look remotely comfortable with themselves; all the rest of them would never dream of letting themselves into an estate that looked like this. 

“I know,” says Piandao. “I sent the hovercar. But I believe this is yours,” he says, gesturing behind him at the _Appa_ , which is resting on the grass, waiting. The _Appa’s_ AI whirs up at the proximity of its creator, and Aang doesn’t think he’s been happier to see his ship in all his thousand and twenty-one years. 

“You all made it,” comes an elderly voice, and everyone spins around to see Iroh entering the courtyard. Zuko doesn’t even pretend not to be teary-eyed. Aang shares a smile with Katara over Zuko’s shoulder. “Good.” Iroh smiles. “You know, I was quite satisfied with my tea shop,” he chuckles, “but it seems that the universe had other ideas.” 

“And here I was, thinking the very same,” says Sokka incredulously, “with the added bonus that my boss appears also to be part of your, er, elite secret organization.” He bows to Piandao, who returns the gesture with a sly smile. Iroh roars a laugh before turning back to Aang and his two vigilante spirits. 

“So it is true,” says Iroh. Aang’s exhausted, but his body whirs up with adrenaline at Iroh’s tone. “You are the embodiment of the Avatar spirit, Aang.” 

Aang blinks at him. He thinks he can recall hearing the term before, but he can’t be sure. He’s quite finished with scraping at his memory for a while.

“The Avatar is an irregularity, but not an inexplicable one,” Iroh continues. “A cosmic anomaly woven into the fabric of the universe. The four elements folded into one. That is your destiny.”

Everyone is quiet. Aang remembers the strange tingle in his fingers, the voices of people he’s never met that echo in his ears during his darkest moments. His mind is far away, dancing to the call of the dragons over the moonlit bay. The pull of the planets and all their elements. 

“Destiny has a funny way of intervening when you least expect it,” says Iroh finally. He pauses, and the air hangs heavily above them all. Just a bunch of friends, barely out of the woods of teenagerhood, the delicate balance of the world suddenly placed squarely on their shoulders. 

Aang’s heart doesn’t feel heavy. Saturated, maybe. Zuko and Katara’s hands interlace at the small of his back, firm and unyielding. Somehow the stars brought them all together, a single permutation of time, an impossible show of luck. The monks didn’t quite believe in fate, but Aang is starting to see its appeal. 

“I will say that I did not expect him to land directly on my doorstep,” chuckles Iroh warmly.

“Destiny? Or Aang?” Toph quips. Aang feels a smile coming on. 

Iroh just smiles, training a kind, watchful eye on Aang. Aang breathes deeply, memorizing the warmth of Zuko’s arm at his back and Katara’s sea-salt smell. 

“Come,” says Iroh. “Let’s have some tea. I believe we have some stories to share.”

**Author's Note:**

> please come talk to me abt this au... i'm on tumblr/ig as @teatimebanter :)


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